


Pluviôse

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Illness, July Revolution, Sarcasm, attempting to banter, disrupting plays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: Joly and Lesgle search for some cheer in a gloomy month.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shellcollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/gifts).



“I believe,” Lesgle said as they stood in the doorway looking out at the rain, “that Fabre d’Eglantine was really spot-on. _Pluviôse_ is apt. Far more informative than _February_.” 

“ _That_ is your excuse for forgetting your umbrella?” Joly asked. Or perhaps more aptly, croaked: his voice was hoarse and about an octave deeper than usual. “That you didn’t know it often rained in February?” 

“That is the excuse I will claim for the present, yes,” Lesgle replied solemnly. They were silent for a moment, then he went on, “We could hire a hackney home?” 

“I don’t want to go home,” Joly said peevishly. “I want—” But he was rudely interrupted by a fit of coughing, the same stubborn cough that had decided to forcefully reassert itself as soon as they were seated in the close warmth of the theatre, and whose disruptive presence had led them to abandon the play after the first act. Which was why they now stood in the foyer of the theatre, being eyed suspiciously by a ticket-taker and watching the rain dumping down outside. 

Once he’d caught his breath, Joly went on, “I believe this cough has gone on so long because I have spent too long in bed. It has allowed the phlegm to settle in my lungs. I wish to be out and about, and upright, in order to shake it up and dislodge it.” 

“Very well,” Lesgle said, not about to debate medical practice with a medical student, dubious as he was about any medical theories that did not include the tried and true method of staying in bed. “Then we’ll both squeeze under your umbrella and go to the first café we see, how about that?” 

Joly nodded, satisfied. “Yes, that sounds very nice.”

Unfortunately, it seemed many others had had the same idea, and they were forced to pass several promising options that proved full to the rafters before they were finally able to squeeze themselves inside of one and settle in, slightly damp, at a table near the back. Joly was, by this time, rather short of breath, and Lesgle pulled out his chair and helped him out of his coat with a well-practiced air of nonchalance. Once settled into their seats, a bottle of wine on the table, they settled too into silence-- an unusual state for both of them.

It was February 1831, and neither had expected to still so keenly feel the bitterness of the summer’s disappointment. They had not lacked for things to do in the months following the new king’s coronation, but there were times it all felt maddeningly small compared to the great opportunity that had been theirs in July. 

Theirs had always been a business of hurry up and wait, of course— of laying plans in preparation for a future action they could not yet define nor always quite see— but before July, they had always felt like they were moving _towards_ something. Now, neither could entirely shake the sensation that they had fallen backwards, and were only laboring to claw themselves back to where they had been before. 

Joly was overtaken with another fit of coughing, which spurred Lesgle to speech. 

“I didn’t think it a very good play anyway,” Lesgle declared. “I am relieved to have been spared paying any more attention. If I wish to be bored at length, I’ll go to class. I demand to be entertained at the theatre.”

“I wanted to see what happened,” Joly replied. “But we can always go back again. Assuming this cough does not kill me.” 

“You do seem to be improving, rather than declining,” Lesgle pointed out. “You hadn’t the energy to get out of bed all last week, and look at you now! Scolding me for forgetting my umbrella and dashing about to the theatre! You’re entirely back to yourself. Though I fear we spent too long in the rain— you’ve begun sniffling.”

“Why, no!” Joly cried, suddenly brightening as he thrust his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Why, that surely means the phlegm has been sufficiently agitated, and has begun circulating upwards— out of the lungs. Oh, I think that likely to be a very good sign indeed!” And he blew his nose with great satisfaction. 

“The dangers of the cold and wet are plain,” Joly went on as Lesgle refilled both of their glasses. “But I have often wondered if they might have a salutary effect on the city as a whole— clearing it out a bit, don’t you know? Washing some of the dirty air and foul water away.” 

“Why, certainly,” Lesgle said. “It makes perfect sense to me. Why not wash the city as you would the floor— by dumping a great deal of water on it and hoping for the best?”

Joly laughed. “I hope you do not intend to try your hand as a housekeeper— I do not think you will last long at it.” 

“How embarrassing. That’s just what I brought you here to announce.”

“Your change of career?”

“Yes, precisely.” Lesgle leaned back in his chair. “Think how convenient it would be for you, to have your very own housekeeper right there in your rooms.”

“Of course, if that were the case, you would have to actually clean things from time to time,” Joly pointed out.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lesgle replied. “Musichetta would never forgive me if I were to attempt to create order out of the chaos she leaves in her wake whenever she spends more than an hour in a room.” A thought drifted into his mind, prompted by he did not know what. “I’ve just remembered, I meant to ask you: has Combeferre mentioned anything to you about that funeral?”

Joly frowned. “What funeral?”

“I suppose it’s not really a funeral— _memorial_ would be more apt. Next week. For the Duke of Berry.”

“The Duke of—” Joly laughed, surprised. “He died more than ten years ago. Why are they memorializing him now?” 

“Why indeed,” Lesgle agreed. “To demonstrate the strength of their support, Courfeyrac thinks— he was the one who mentioned it to me. Apparently, Bahorel has heard rumblings that something might happen, but no one’s yet been able to discover who is saying so, or what they’re planning.” 

“Interesting.” Joly paused to cough, then to soothe his throat with a sip of wine. “Where is it to be?” 

“Can’t remember,” Lesgle said. “Near the Louvre, I believe?” 

“That’s not _so_ far out of our way, if we’re going to the Corinthe anyway,” Joly said, tapping the rim of his wine glass thoughtfully. “Which we generally are at some point or another. I suppose we might mention to Enjolras that we could stop by on the day, to see if anything is happening.” 

“Assuming that cough does not kill you.”

“Well, yes, of course,” Joly replied, refilling both of their glasses. He lifted his to toast. “Always assuming that.”


End file.
